At the next stop Estridge received a careless nod from his chance acquaintance, gathered up his luggage and descended to the frosty platform.
Nobody bothered to open their bags; their papers were merely glanced at. They had some steaming tea and some sour bread together.
A little later a large sleigh drove up behind the station; their light baggage was stowed aboard, they climbed in under the furs.
“Now,” remarked his calm companion to Estridge, “we’re all right if the Reds, the Whites and the boches don’t shoot us up.”
“What are the chances?” inquired Estridge.
“Excellent, excellent,” said his companion cheerily, “I should say we have about one chance in ten to get out of this alive. I’ll take either end––ten to one we don’t get out––ten to two we’re shot up and not killed––ten to three we are arrested but not killed––one to ten we pull through with whole skins.”
Estridge smiled. They remained silent, probably preoccupied with the hazards of their respective fortunes. It grew colder toward noon.
The young man seated beside Estridge in the sleigh smoked continually.
He was attached to one of the American missions sent into Russia by an optimistic administration––a mission, as a whole, foredoomed to political failure.